Chapter I

O local mannerisms,
Coarsely woven cloaks
Thrown upon the plodding,
Emaciated days within this village,
I have no contempt or praise
To give you--no desire
To rip you off, discovering
Skin, and undulations known as sin,
And no desire to revise you
With glamorous endearments of rhyme.
Slowly purchased garments
Of cowardice, men wear you
And aid their practised shrinking
From one faint irritation
Escaping nightly from their souls.
Night makes men uncertain--
The mystery of a curtain
Different from those that hang in windows.
At night the confidence of flesh
Becomes less strong and men
Are forced to rescue it
With desperate hilarities.
Observe them now within the bland
Refuge of manufactured light.
Between the counters of a village store
They arm their flesh with feigned
Convictions brought by laughter.
Afterwards, as they roll along
The dark roads leading to their farms,
The grumbling of their souls will compete
With the neighing of horses
And the stir of leaves and weeds.
Night will lean upon them,
Teasing the sturdiness of flesh.